


Dean Hates the Beatles

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Arguing, Because of course he does, But I don't care, Crack, Dean gets offended, Gen, I had too much fun with this, Lots of Led Zeppelin, References to the Beatles, Sam suffers, it's short, like Thrown thrown, shade is thrown, somebody help me, why am i like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 15:33:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15076229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Dean seems to think The Beatles are girly. Sam disagrees.Pure unfiltered crack.





	Dean Hates the Beatles

**Author's Note:**

> This is pure crack I wrote when I was bored. It’s short, but meh I don’t care. Read it and weep.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

“The Beatles? Really Sam?” Dean chucked the CD case into the back seat with a flick of his wrist. It bounced off the seat and hit the floor with a dull thud. “I knew you were a chick, but I didn’t think you were  _ this _ bad.”  

Sam shifted in his seat, watching out of the corner of his eye as Dean slipped some CD, he couldn’t tell which, in the deck of the crappy car. Some part of him was happy that Dean put the Beatles CD in the case, instead of just chucking the bare CD into the back of the car and leaving it to slide around on the floor. That would’ve been a waste of a couple dollars, spent on a CD that got one play before it got all scratched up. So theoretically, he could play it again, if given the right chance.

Whatever CD Dean picked started out, and Sam sighed his way right into a slump against the back of his seat. It was sad that he recognized the song, even sadder that it only took the first guitar riff for it to click. And it was even _sadder_ that he placed the album only a few short seconds later. It was the first one off _Led Zeppelin II,_ Dean’s “second favourite album, right after IV,” according to the man himself.

And it was loud.

Loud enough that Sam attempted to turn it down, only for Dean to swat his hand away like he was some kind of kid reaching for the cookie jar.

“Nuh-uh. You’re not turning it down. This is _real_ music. Not girly Beatles,” Dean yelled. A second passed, and Dean clicked the volume down himself, probably aware of the fact that nobody could think with Robert Plant screeching in their ear. The rest of the song was soon skipped, and Dean’s hand was plopped back on the wheel, his eyes focused back on the road.

Sam thought for a moment.

“How bout… I don’t know… The Doors? Are they girly?” he asked, deciding it was best not to try to push the argument any further—it was obvious enough that Dean wasn’t going to be giving in. Especially when the Beatles were the band he’d been giving Sam a tongue lashing for. On a normal day, trying to argue with Dean about music was a fool’s errand, he knew that well enough at this point. But when the Beatles were the band being criticized? All hope was lost. At that point Sam became something of an ant, and Dean became the brick wall he was trying to push over. The whole mission was pointless, hopeless, and utterly stupid.

So Sam decided to start another.

“Obviously,” Dean snorted. “I mean the lead’s got hair as long as yours.”

“Better than the Beatles?”

“Everyone’s better than the Beatles. Morrison Hotel trumps Sgt. Pepper’s any day of the week,” Dean explained, as if it were common sense.

“How about Elvis? Is Elvis girly?” Sam pushed, just seeing how far he could get Dean to go with this. What exactly was manly in his brother’s brain and why? It’d become a little game of Clue to figure out, only with girly musicians instead of murder mysteries. Jimmy Page with the guitar in London? Not girly. Hendrix on the mic at Woodstock? Not girly. Elvis—that was the next guess. 

However, at the mention of “Elvis” and “girly” in the same sentence, Dean looked as if he’d finally gone ahead and swallowed a lemon. And if Sam hadn’t known any better, he’d have assumed he _really_ did. The sour look that crossed his face was enough to kill a small flock of birds, and the murder that danced in his eyes could very well have put down a toddler or two. 

But Sam was no flock of birds, nor was he a toddler, so Dean’s look had no affect.

Unless… Dean had gone ahead and damned his great-great-grandchildren’s children to hell, which was likely at that point. But it was irrelevant.

It was as if Dean was wondering whether Sam had really had the nerve to say that, something so _absolutely_ atrocious. As if putting the two words together in a sentence was nothing short of a felony.

“No. No. No _way_ ,” Dean sputtered, still looking at Sam utter disbelief, “Elvis is the king of rock and roll. How could you even suggest that? How are you even my brother?”

Sam just shrugged and feigned his best innocent face. “I don’t know what’s considered girly anymore. I thought The Beatles were manly enough for you,” he said.

“The Beatles are pansies. Always have been, always will be,” Dean insisted. “I mean, just look at McCartney’s  _ face _ . The guy’s just asking to get punched, I swear.”

“Okay I think that’s-”

“Nope, they’re pansies. Complete and utter flower-sniffing pansies, all of them. And you can’t even _begin_ to compare Elvis Presley, the friggin’ king of rock, to those wimps.” Dean turned to make eye contact with Sam, “Or I’m disowning you.”

“You can’t disown me.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I can, Sam. All I have to-”

“You’re not disowning me.”

Dean rolled his eyes and turned back to look at the road. He fell silent for a second, lips sealed. “Next stop, you’re burning that CD,” he said, as if offended by the mere presence of it back there, “Or you’re not getting back in the car.”

“Oh come on, I paid-”

“I don’t care if you paid for it or you stole it, it’s stinkin’ up the whole car,” Dean insisted.

Sam rolled his eyes, but gave in. “Fine.”

He still had the iPod nestled in the bottom of his bag like some dirty little secret, loaded with everything Dean didn’t listen to, ranging from the Beatles to Wynton Marsalis to Michael Jackson and on and on. He was pretty sure he had over a thousand songs stored on it, all of them stolen from the beautiful thing that was the internet. The CD was a loss, but it was one he could deal with. Not one he wanted, that was for sure, but he could handle it easily, since the CD was already backed up on the iPod. 

They pulled into a gas station about two hundred miles later, Dean’s CDs still going. Sam didn’t know where Dean’d gotten all the CDs, considering that the Impala didn’t exactly _have_ a CD player and the tiny car they’d stolen _did_ , meaning Dean might’ve gone out and bought a whole new collection just for the one trip. But that was none of Sam’s business. It was his business, however, that it seemed like Dean had turned up with one of those big CD cases and decided to just run through it all. They’d gone through pretty much every Led Zeppelin album, besides Presence. Apparently, “it’s not Zep’s finest”; Dean-speak for “it sucks but I’m not admitting Led Zeppelin has ever done anything wrong”. Sam just shrugged and silently cheered, happy to skip an album or two or five. He had no problem with it. None at all. 

Stopped at the gas station, he did not burn the Beatles CD. Instead, he watched on as Dean angrily searched the whole back seat for it, found it, and wasted no time cracking it in half and throwing it in the trash with an angry flourish, like any normal person definitely would’ve done. He tossed the case in with it, took a moment to sigh in relief, and asked Sam “you want anything?” like nothing had even happened. 

Sam blinked, trying to be sure what had just happened had actually happened. “Nah, I’m good,” he said, waving Dean off. “I got the pump.” He wiggled the pump in the air for Dean to see and stuck it in the side of the car. 

Dean flashed a thumbs up and turned towards the seedy looking Quicky Mart, no doubt happy without the Beatles “stinkin’ up the whole car” anymore. 

And in that moment, standing next to the gas pump, Sam wondered how much a bottle of superglue and a Sgt. Pepper’s CD would cost.

 


End file.
